


come down from your fences

by light_loves_the_dark



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Brienne really wants to kill Petyr, But it sort of fits in canon, F/M, Jon is so done, Petyr is hardcore in love with her, Petyr's POV, Podrick is along for the ride, Sansa has unknown motives and plans, Semi-Dark Sansa, call it an interlude, so he doesn't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: “I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”Petyr, deep down, has always been a coward. But, he thinks, as he bundles a drugged Sansa into his arms and deposits her in a carriage destined far from Winterfell, even he does not know whether this is an act of cowardice. Maybe it is stupidity.Maybe it is strength.(AKA the one where Petyr tries to do the right thing, but it’s too late. Happiness and safety are luxuries that he forfeited long ago. But that doesn’t mean he can’t try.)





	come down from your fences

**Author's Note:**

> so this is an interlude set after 7x01, because Jon is still in Winterfell for the beginning. and idk. I actually find this story really sad? maybe it's because I spent it thinking about Petyr's impending death. ha. 
> 
> kinda inspired by reading moffnat's theories on tumblr, especially the one about the 'gun on the wall' (I think that's right?) which, if you have a tumblr and don't follow @petyrbaelish, you're insane - go do it right now. 
> 
> title from the song 'desperado' by the eagles. 'come down from your fences' is a phrase used by the loved ones of men who worked on railroads a long time ago. it was considered a solitary job, often done by a very tragic figure. remind you of anyone?

Jon Snow, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, knows before anyone else that Sansa Stark has disappeared.

Well, except for Brienne of Tarth, who runs into the war room like the white walkers themselves are on her heels, to tell him.

“Milord, Lady Sansa is gone.”

Jon nearly stumbles, as if he has been hit. He is quick to move around the large table in the center of the room. He is glad to be alone; any more dissent between Sansa and him should not be seen by the rest of the families.

“What do you mean, gone?” He demands. Brienne hands him a note.

_Brother-_

_Lord Baelish and I have gone to secure more men from the Vale. I am sorry to leave without notice, but this is a delicate mission which could turn the course of the war._

_I will write with news._

_Rule in good health,_

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_

Jon is silent for a minute; he has been expecting Littlefinger to leave for a while, and has in turn been quite surprised at the man’s unfailing devotion to his sister. Eventually, he had begun to worry about the clout Baelish truly had over the Vale army, which has seemed very restless these past weeks. According to Sansa, Robin Arryn is a sickly, precocious child who has no business ruling the Vale. But then, his mother had been much the same, and no one had rebelled against her.

“Do you think she went willingly?” He asks Brienne. He hopes that it did not sound as abrupt to her as it did to him.

Brienne is unflappable either way. “I doubt it, milord.” She pauses, but her next words are written on her face so obviously that Jon knows exactly what she is about to say. He remembers with fondness when Sansa was the same way, before King’s Landing and Petyr Baelish had twisted her into a new, unrecognizable shape.

“Allow me to take Podrick to find her, milord. I swear that we will be swift, and you can decide for yourself what to do with Littlefinger.” She takes a deep breath. “I swore an oath to your mother-”

“I know, my lady,” Jon interrupts, and though her face is sour at the title, she says nothing. “Of course you have leave to go. But if you would go and speak with the Vale captains with me before you leave, it would be much appreciated.”

Brienne nods.

“You understand that we must keep this quiet for as long as possible,” he warns. It would not be good for the North to see Sansa as a deserter, as most of them saw her as a Bolton already. They would need to come up with a story as to why she is not present at future meetings; perhaps the one utilized in the note would be the most believable.

But first, the Vale army. As much as Jon would like to focus all of his attention on his sister, there is a war coming. A war that they must win.

\--

She looks so peaceful, he thinks. He has never had this much time to look his fill of the woman who he intends to make his queen, and he ignores his papers and letters in favor of taking advantage of the situation.

  
That is what he does best, of course. Taking advantage.

Her dark red hair is loose around her face, and falls to her waist. It is difficult not to reach forward and wrap the soft strands around his fingers, and if he is honest, he sometimes does not restrain himself at all. Her visage is relaxed and pale, eyelids delicate but firmly closed. He would bet that she has not slept so well in months, if not years. Her wolf furs are wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She reclines against the side of the carriage. Over the course of their journey, he has covered it in pillows to keep her head from knocking too hard against the wooden wall. He has even taken the ones around him to help cushion her, leaving him uncomfortable and aching. He take it as his penance for spiriting her away in the middle of the night without her consent.

To be completely honest, he could barely call it a plan. Terror had gripped him only days before he acted. This war will require no political strategy, no reasoning. They will be fighting creatures of ice who desire no land or wealth, only death. Winterfell is far too close to those creatures for his taste, and though Sansa calls it home, he can easily see how thin her connection is to the cold, empty ramparts.

He is doing her a great service, though she will not realize it for quite a while. He refuses to consider the possibility that she will never realize it.

Petyr has always known that he is not a good man, and even worse, that deep down he will always be that cowardly little boy who was ripped open by Brandon Stark. But, he thinks, as he remembers bundling a drugged Sansa into his arms and depositing her in a carriage destined far from Winterfell, even he does not know whether this is an act of cowardice.

The woman he loves dozes only inches from him, on her way to safety. Maybe it is strength.

Sansa sighs in her sleep, and she sounds like an innocent child. Her head falls back against the pillows in a slightly violent motion. Petyr easily convinces himself that she is not comfortable, standing with little effort. Oblivious to the harsh movements of the carriage, he lifts the scarlet crown of Sansa’s head from the pillow, slipping in between the girl and her makeshift bed.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers her head to rest on his lap. She barely moves under the heavy sleeping tonic, and he exhales at the sight of her long red curls splayed across his thighs. He does not resist the temptation to run his ringed fingers through the strands, untangling each of the soft locks with as much care as he gives the pen strokes on his correspondence. He shifts once to rub his thumb across her pale cheek, and finally the tension of the past few days bleeds out of his mind and body and he relaxes, leaning back against the pillows. Winterfell and death are behind them, for now. She will be safe; he will ensure it.

Petyr Baelish falls asleep with his hands tangled in Sansa’s hair and her face tangled in his dreams.

\--

It is a journey of several weeks, but soon enough they arrive by carriage and boat to Braavos. Petyr has an account and a home here, and though it is not quite far enough for his taste, he cannot continue making Sansa sleep without damaging consequences. It is time for her to wake.

Petyr sends his servants ahead to open up the house and stock it with food. He carries Sansa himself to the master bedroom, ignoring the curious looks of the staff. They will say nothing if they value their lives, and he knows he has made that clear enough in the past. They bring him new writing materials and a glass of brandy, and he sets up a chair next to the bed and waits.

It is several hours until Sansa begins to shift, and another hour or so until she opens her eyes. There is a moment of silence between them as Sansa takes in her surroundings before turning sleepy, accusing eyes on him. The first words out of her mouth are about the ones he expects.

“Lord Baelish, what you have done?”

Her voice might as well have come out as a croak, and so he stands and pours her a glass of water. She snatches it from him, clearly unhappy to be accepting his help, and takes a long drink. “ _Petyr,_ ” he corrects, though he knows it will only make her angry.

Sansa scoffs. “I’m not playing a game, _Littlefinger._ Where are we?” She turns and gazes out at the other buildings through the window, and though there is a chill in the air, it must be obvious to her that they are nowhere near Winterfell.

His young protégé glares at him in fury, and though her hands are surely itching to close around his neck, he cannot help but notice that she is glorious. She is too glorious, too important, to be wasted in this war. All of Petyr’s wiles and connections mean nothing against immortal creatures of ice. He cannot fight, and neither can Sansa. They are useful in a kingdom, but not in a fight for survival. He must convince her of this as well.

He thinks, on a separate note, that Jon Snow must have gotten this through his thick head, or else there would be far more men on their trail. As of now, his spies have only reported seeing Brienne of Tarth, who is far too honorable to let her charge be dragged off by a brothel keep, even if it is in the direction of safety.

“Safe,” he says finally, walking forward so that his knees brush the bedframe. She refuses to meet his eyes.

“And where is safe?” She asks. “I do not know of a city that goes by that name.”

If he could not hear the obvious anger in her tone, he would think that she were teasing him. He sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring her very noticeable slide to the other side of the mattress. He did not bring her against her will to regain her trust so easily, he reminds himself. He brought her here to keep her safe, even from herself.

“Braavos, milady.” He keeps his voice gentle and soothing, like she is a skittish animal that he must calm.

He has forgotten that she is the wolf.

“Take me home, Lord Baelish,” she commands. Though her speech is still slightly slurred from repeated doses of sleeping tonic, a shiver blazes up his spine. She sounds so much like a queen, like _his_ queen. “Now,” she adds, as if he might be uncertain.

He shakes his head. “I am sorry, my love. I will give you anything your heart desires, jewels or dresses or books, but I cannot take you home.”

“You would take my freedom, then? Dress me up like a doll, strip me of my will?” Her voice rises in volume with each word.

“You will die if you return, milady. You are not a fighter nor a general. Let those that are fight this war.” Though she is still angry, he knows he has her full attention. It is time to play his trump card. “You and I are better suited to help the war efforts from here.” 

She turns her deep blue eyes onto him, curious and discerning for the first time since she awakened. “What do you mean?”

He tries to refrain from a triumphant smirk. Does she think that he would not make plans for her to help defend her home? He knows Sansa Stark better than anyone in all of Westeros; she would not allow herself to be useless.

“There is dragon glass beneath Dragonstone, of which your brother already knows. Once he has charged Lord Davos with the safety of Winterfell in your absence, he will ride south to treat with Daenerys Targaryen for that dragon glass.”

He pauses to gauge her comprehension, but she only rolls her eyes, gesturing for him to continue.

“However, I have been made aware of more stores of dragon glass.”

Sansa sits up straight at this. “Where?” She demands.

Petyr takes a moment to admire her fire. In any other situation, he would request payment for such information, perhaps even a kiss. But he supposes, for now, he is in the red. “Essos. You and I will deal for it, and send it North.”

Sansa studies him carefully, eyes roaming every nuance of his expression. He remains still for her inspection, thrilling at the feeling of her eyes on him. She has been so careful to avoid looking at him after his confession in the Godswood, and it is a welcome change.

“Very well,” she says finally. “And then you will take me home.”

Petyr frowns. “I will keep you safe,” he says instead.  
  
“My _brother_ and _Brienne_ will keep me safe,” she corrects. “I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t need your protection.”

He is in loathe to leave it there. “Your brother is concerned with the white walkers, and Brienne could not protect Renly nor your mother. You need not trust me, Sansa, but that will not change the fact that _you_ are my priority.”

A long time ago, those words would have at least enticed a blush from her cheeks. Not anymore. “A priority you gave to Ramsay Bolton.”

Petyr sighs. “I know you will never forgive me that, and perhaps you are right not to. But I will continue to attempt to earn your forgiveness, my love, I must.” He stands from the bed, taking a moment to straighten his clothing. “I will leave you to rest now. We will begin our work in the morning.” He pauses at the door, knowing her eyes will not leave him until he leaves the room. “Goodnight, Sansa.”

“Kindly take your leave, Lord Baelish,” is her reply.

He shuts the door behind him. Two of his men stand in the hallway, waiting for orders. He turns to the first one. “No one is to enter or leave this room until I return in the morning. If Lady Sansa calls for anything, inform me.” He gestures for the second man to follow him, making for his study.

Perhaps Sansa will speak more kindly with him in the morning.

\--

The next day goes much the same as the day before, and the day after that, and so forth. Sansa is cordial enough as they endeavor to discover the weaknesses of the masters at Asshai. They have already made weapons out of dragon glass, and if Petyr can find something to exploit, those weapons will be theirs.

If they are not working however, Sansa avoids him like the plague. Almost as a formality, she demands to go home each day, and each day, he denies her.

He is beginning to get bored as well. The game beckons to him from Westeros; he was foolish to think they could remain here very long. He will have to begin to consider where Sansa and he can be most useful from here. He hopes that the answer will not be Winterfell.

Several weeks pass before Sansa uncovers something big enough to change the tide of their negotiations. She nearly falls into his study with her papers, and the excited look on her face makes his heart stutter and warm. She has not shown any positive emotion towards him for such a long time, and he has forgotten what it feels like.

“There,” she declares. He scans the documents detailing the lies of one of the supposedly wealthy merchants of Asshai, one who could easily give them the weapons that they need. Pride swells in his chest, and he smirks up at her.

“Well done, my love,” he praises. “He’ll never see this coming.”

Sansa smirks back. “And now,” she tells him, “you can take me home.”

 _Ah, that is why she’s so smug,_ he thinks. “Your safety-” he tries.

Her whole demeanor shifts, and the smile fades from her face. “Why do you care so much about my safety?” she demands. Though the volume of her voice stays normal, it feels to him as though she is shouting.  

His answer is the same. It will always be the same. “Because I love you,” he entreats. “I will always love you.”

Sansa’s eyes flash; if she had not been enraged before, she certainly is now. “I don’t _want_ your love, Lord Baelish. I never have, and I never will.”

“You allowed me to stay in the North-”

“Because you control the Vale army. I would have to be insane to turn that away; Jon and I have too precarious a position to make an enemy of the East.”

“It is more than that, sweetling. You can fool your brother and your knight and everyone else, but I _know_ you. You allowed me to stay because you knew that my ambitions include you, and whatever makes you happy. You knew I would do anything in my power to keep you from harm. It scares you, doesn’t it, that knowledge? But it makes you feel powerful all the same.”

Sansa shakes her head, but it is useless. He can see the truth in her eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to rule; have you considered that? Maybe my happiness lies elsewhere.”

He smirks at her misdirection. “No, sweetling. Your half-brother already annoys you, doesn’t listen to you. Do you think it will get better with time? It will get _worse_. I can help you-”

“I don’t want your help!” Sansa shouts, and something inside her breaks. “I owe you nothing.”

The unspoken “ _and I don’t want to ever again_ ” echoes between them. Petyr tries one more time. “Sansa-”

“Please stop,” she interrupts. “We have been arguing in circles for weeks, Lord Baelish. Either you can help me or you can lock me away, but you cannot keep me here forever.”

 _I know,_ he wants to say, suddenly very tired. He knows that they cannot stay in Braavos forever; it will kill them both. If only they could be content to live out their lives here. The mess in Westeros will sort itself out at some point. But he is too hungry, and he knows that however much she denies it, she is the same. She is right; they will go back eventually.

But it does not have to be now.

\--

More weeks pass, and to his surprise, Sansa gradually softens towards him. Perhaps the argument they had, however raw, had cleared some of the air between them. Or maybe she too has realized that he will have to cave and return to Westeros eventually.

In any case, she no longer declines his invitation to break her fast with him. They discuss the wars, both past and future, and he allows her unrefined attempts to pick his brain for his strategies and secrets. She spends much time with his books, and he with his letters. Varys might have his birds, but Petyr has his own thorough spies. He is unsurprised by the events on the continent, and he easily executes several moves from correspondence alone. Living in this city is beginning to be a tedious normalcy, but he is at least pleased with living alongside Sansa day to day. Though Braavos is not the exact location where he wants to be, Sansa is clearly the only companion with whom he would wish to spend a lifetime.

He discovers soon that it is a pointless wish to spend a lifetime with someone if you are Petyr Baelish. The day is particularly chilly in Braavos when Brienne and Podrick storm into his apartments in the city. Brienne’s sword is drawn and Podrick has a look on his face that Petyr figures is supposed to be menacing.

Sansa and he are in the study, carefully reviewing Petyr’s file of trustworthy captains to find one that is suitable to bring the dragon glass to Winterfell. He knows that it will be nearly impossible to keep Sansa from her birthright after the situation is completely sorted, so it is almost a relief to see the knight and her squire.

Petyr has been anticipating this for quite a while now. His moment of madness has passed; their interlude in the warm, neutral streets of Braavos is almost at an end. The fleeting moments of peace they have found here have taught him more about the woman he would make a queen than the weeks of travel they used to endure together. She has changed much after Ramsay, and for the better. There is no longer any doubt in Petyr’s mind that Sansa is not only beautiful and strong like her mother, but also ambitious and ruthless, two qualities that were always missing from his queen of love and beauty. Sansa is his queen of everything.

Brienne takes his attention away from his thoughts with a dramatic gesture of her sword. “Release my lady at once, Littlefinger,” she barks. Podrick, left with nothing else to do, nods awkwardly in agreement.

“I will not stand between _my_ lady and her freedom, Lady Brienne,” Petyr replies easily, standing. Sansa stands with him, watching him with curiosity.  

In contrast with the calmness of Sansa’s stance, Brienne radiates urgency. “Lady Sansa, please,” she says, motioning to Sansa. He wonders with incredulity if she actually thinks he would hurt the woman that he loves. The girl in question seems to be thinking along the same lines. In loathe to watch a fight break out, Sansa joins Brienne across the room after a quick glance at Petyr. “I will get you back to your brother, milady,” Brienne promises.

Petyr chuckles. “You don’t want to be returned to your brother, do you, milady?” He asks her, ignoring the lady knight. “But he did not leave you in charge of Winterfell either. Where, then, will you go?”

Sansa readies herself to respond, but instead Brienne strides forward. She comes to a stop only a foot or two from Petyr, bringing up her sword in a striking position.

“I will kill him myself, my lady, if you command it.”

One of Petyr’s men peels away from the wall to confront Brienne, but Petyr waves him back. “No, that won’t be necessary.” His eyes do not leave Sansa’s. “I told you once that if you wanted me to die, I would die. I will not renege on that promise.”

Sansa’s mouth opens and closes in a rare display of clear uncertainty. “I-”

“It’s very simple, my love,” Petyr interrupts, keeping his voice smooth. It would not do to show hesitation. “You seemed to want me dead only hours ago.”

“Quiet, Littlefinger,” Brienne warns.

Sansa gains control of herself, raising an eyebrow. “Do you think you deserve to die?”

Petyr wants to laugh at her attempt to buy herself some time. She needs to make a choice, not argue philosophy. If she is to be a queen, she must dispense justice, though he hopes that she will not start with him. “You are the judge and juror here, milady.”

“It would be a pleasure, Lady Sansa,” Brienne cuts in, teeth gritted. Petyr thinks that she has been anticipating this for quite a while.

There is a tense moment, but Sansa stares him straight in the eye. In that empty house in Mount Cailin, he had known exactly what her response would be. She hated him, but she had needed his army.

Now, she has no immediate need of the Vale, and if the deal with the Targaryen Queen goes as he expects, she will have no need at all. He is useful, but not necessary, much like that boy from the Fingers. There is such a vulnerability in being unneeded, one that he is sure Sansa feels when she looks at her half-brother. They are both of them useful, but unnecessary.

Except maybe, he hopes, to each other.

It all comes down to her hatred. Does she still feel the itch to string him up for giving her to Ramsay, or has she softened? Have the weeks of painless recovery in Braavos, living almost as husband and wife, as the king and queen of the game board, softened her?

Can anything?

He tries to ask her each question with only his eyes, and to glean an answer in return, but she remains stoic through his silent interrogation.

Finally, Sansa sighs. “It’s not worth it.” Petyr exhales, swallowing down the question of why. He will draw that from her later. Brienne lowers her sword, clearly disappointed. “He did not bring me here with dishonest intentions, and the army that follows him is still useful to our cause.”

It is a stretch, but it satisfies the lady knight. Brienne grumbles something under her breath, but Sansa is kind enough not to comment. “What are we to do then, milady?”

Sansa looks at Petyr, then at her knight. “Send a letter to my brother and tell him I request control of the North; there should always be a Stark in Winterfell.  I will send Ser Davos south to help with negotiations.” Brienne nods, motioning to Podrick who hurries from the room. “In the morning, we ride north,” Sansa continues, speaking only to Brienne. “I have seen enough of this city.”

“And what will you have of me, milady?” Petyr says, waiting for her attention. She cannot expect him to take his leave of her. He cannot imagine a worse punishment.

“Your ear,” she replies to his relief. “After dinner, I would speak with you.”

Attempting to conceal his pleasure at her words, Petyr merely executes a small bow. He motions for his men to follow him; there are many things he must do before leaving Braavos, so he will give Sansa and her knight the room.

“Very well, milady,” he replies, making a wide arc around Brienne. “After dinner.”

It sounds like a promise.

\--

When Petyr returns, Brienne is gone and someone has lit a fire in the fireplace. Sansa sits at his desk, reading over a letter. He is sure it is addressed to her brother; to whom else could she write?

“My love,” Petyr greets. She looks so lovely in the firelight, surrounded by candles. Her hair is down and it curls around her shoulders, just the way he likes it. It almost glows in the flickering light of the room. She is wearing a dress of green and gold that he gifted her, and if Petyr were a lesser man, he would fall to his knees then and there and worship her like the goddess that she so clearly is.  

Sansa looks up at him and waves for him to enter, folding her letter to render it unreadable. He represses a chuckle at her lack of subtlety. “Lord Baelish, thank you for joining me.”

He has given up correcting her on his name, so he just smirks. “Anything for you, my love,” he replies. “There was something you needed to tell me…?” He prods; he has waited nearly all afternoon, and he is quite impatient.

There is a beat of silence as Sansa assesses him. She seems to find what she is looking for rather quickly, and that decides her.

“For a kiss,” she begins, her voice soft but her tone blunt, “you would do anything I asked.”

Petyr tries to hide his surprise at her candid words, but he knows that he is unsuccessful. This is not a move he expected from his Sansa, but it is certainly not unwelcome. Though her words are in the form of a statement, it sounds to him like she is seeking reassurance. Therefore, he nods, but makes no other movements. Though he yearns for her with his entire body, he does not dare to step any closer.

Instead, it is she that steps close, firmly into his space. His hands itch to wrap around her, but he waits patiently for her to explain further. “I will not ask you to take me home, because Brienne will take me home no matter your thoughts on the subject. Ser Davos should not have power in the North.”

“Very well,” Petyr rasps. “Then what will you have of me?”

Sansa takes a deep breath, but her eyes do not leave his. She shows no signs of backing down. “I have three demands.”

“Name them,” he counters.

She does not waste any time replying. “You will return with me to the North.”

Before he can respond in the affirmative – in truth, he will always go wherever she goes, even were it into the depths of Hell itself – she takes him by the shoulders and presses a short kiss to his mouth. It is over before his hands even graze her waist in response.

“I will excuse the first, my dear, as I intended to return in any case, but an exceptional request should be met with an equally exceptional kiss, don’t you agree?”

Sansa looks at him with a show of disgust, but she cannot disguise the glimmer of interest in her eyes. He knows that she does not find him completely unattractive. A long time ago, she would kiss him back without any favors in return, simply for the pleasure of it. Even in the past few weeks, he has caught her looking at his mouth, bumping against him even where there is plenty of space.

She wants this, he knows, maybe even as badly as he does.

Her second demand is both disappointing and predictable. “You will not hurt Jon.”

He tuts under his breath. “That is quite the tall order, my love,” he tells her, taking ahold of her waist in one hand and cupping her cheek in the other. “I might need some persuading.”

He waits for her to come to him, but once her lips have touched his, he takes control of the kiss. He leans her up against the desk and kisses her harder, delighting in her innocent attempts to kiss him back. The hand on her cheek slides in her hair almost without thought, and he pulls, drawing a moan from her throat. He is getting ready to lift her onto the desk so that he can step between her thighs when she finally pushes him back.

She does not let him go far; they are still so close that he can feel her breath on his face. Her chest is heaving, and she digs her nails into his shoulders as if for support.

“And the third, Sansa?” He encourages, hoping his voice is more even than it sounds.

Despite her quiet gasps for air, she continues to look him straight in the eye. “You will make me a queen, _Petyr_.”

For a moment, everything stops, and he considers her words. There is, has always been, a possibility that she is playing him. She has easily become ambitious enough to try.

However, at the moment, with the sound of his name on her lips, he finds that he does not care. Not as long as she keeps kissing him like that. “Yes,” he hisses, pulling her mouth to his.

If she stabs him in this very instant, he would go happily. He hopes instead that she will let him keep that promise. She would look so radiant in a crown of silver and diamonds. The people bowing to her, adoring her. He keeps that image behind his eyelids as he kisses her, delighting in every whimper that leaves her throat. He will add it to the growing pile in his mind, next to the ones of her in his bed with her red hair surrounding them like a halo, and the ones of him on the iron throne with her by his side. 

Pretty pictures, indeed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> please review if you liked / come yell at me on tumblr (@queeenpersephone) !!


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